Art requires careful observation and an even steadier hand. A masterpiece should be worthy of both the heavens and hellfire, something exquisitely unsettling. And a toy cannot be truly remarkable without an understanding of its every mechanism, every delicate stitch and painted feature.

Jason understands this better than anyone. He scrutinizes. He experiments. A good toymaker must be passionate about their craft, must examine his muse from every angle, must understand what makes them so breathtaking.

It’s only reasonable, then, that he visits you in your dreams, watches from the shadows.

You, adorned in vintage from head to toe, a living relic of an era long past. It’s rare to find someone with such an appreciation for Victorian fashion, someone who carries its elegance with effortless grace. And my, don’t you look lovely—so very much like a doll.

Which is why, perhaps, you are not entirely surprised by your predicament.

Who would leave such an eerily precise replica of you outside your door? Six times this month, a porcelain doll has appeared. Their glass-like skin captures the delicate features of your face, their eyes forever wide, gleaming with a hauntingly artificial life. Each one adorned in an outfit you once wore—down to the smallest detail. Every seam, every fabric choice, every accessory accounted for.

And yet, despite the eerie nature of these offerings, despite the knowledge that someone is watching and leaving these little effigies at your door, you have not even spoken of it to anyone. Instead, you keep them.

Jason watches. He knows.

So he returns, like clockwork, slipping into your room under the cover of night. You rest beneath your blankets. How beautiful you are in slumber, utterly unaware. He notices everything—your breathing pattern, the subtle change in your hairstyle.

Ah, yes. A new hairstyle. How fortunate that he gets to be the first to admire it properly.

Another doll is in the making, and an artist of his caliber cannot afford to miss a single, minuscule detail.